Mourning After Dawn

By TR Nowry

One, two, three, four.

They had escaped, they were free! The four of them had broken out from the most sadistic hellhole he had ever imagined, had been chased by an entire army into these nearly inaccessible mountains, and were now surely left for dead.

One, two, three, four.

Their guide and only defense lay dead just a few feet away. But all was not lost. He knew where the village was, the general direction at least. He could make it there before the weather really hit, even on foot.

One, two, three, four.

He sealed his lips around hers, then blew. He could make it there easily, if it wasn't for her...

One, two, three, four.

He was doomed.

Mourning After Dawn continues the story from where The Heredity of Hummingbirds leaves off, but it stands alone like the rest of the Hummingbird series as the reluctant lovers fight to survive in a mountainous valley that may prove more lethal than the army they left behind.

...
Daughters of Immortality picks up where Mourning after Dawn leaves off.

• Language: English
• Publisher: TR Nowry
• Release date: Nov 21, 2009
• ISBN: 9781102468523

TR Nowry

I'm an Indie author living in Bumpass (yes, there really is a place called Bumpass). Indie, in my case, means no cover artist, no editors, and no marketing of any kind. For good or bad, it's just me, a taped together laptop bought in '03, and some horrendous credit card debt for over a decade of typing. The Hummingbird Series was written with each book more like a season on a TV series than what some may expect from a 'traditional' or 'mainstream' series from those Publishing House factories. It starts with The Art of the Houdini Scientist, then continues with Patent Mine, Hell from a Well, The Heredity of Hummingbirds, Mourning after Dawn, Daughters of Immortality, and Waffen, with others on the way. Questions or comments? They're always welcome at my Xanga blog or Facebook (TR Nowry). I'll be sure to answer... on those months I can afford to pay my phone bill. Found some typos and have a hankering to help an indie author instead of hurling stones? Both sites work well for that too. Please continue to support your favorite Indie authors by recommending them to your friends and writing thoughtful reviews, it's the only marketing most of us will ever get!

Book preview

Chapter 1

Mourning After Dawn is book five in the Hummingbird Series and it picks up where The Heredity of Hummingbirds leaves off. Each book in the Hummingbird Series is best thought of as a season from a TV series than what you might be used to from a traditional, mainstream book series (I'm Indie for a reason, I don't color in the lines or follow the rules :)

--This story contains adult content and themes and is not intended for children--

Mourning After Dawn

By TR Nowry

One. . . two. . . three. . . four. . .

He took a deep breath, sealed his lips around hers, then blew. He had never done this before today. It was harder than it looked. After only a minute or two, he was already lightheaded, dizzy; it felt like a belt was tightening around his ribs.

He pressed his ear to her chest, then listened. He heard a slow, bubbly hiss. He closed his eyes and concentrated. There. It sounded like a beat, but he couldn't be sure. It seemed so doubtful that he— That was a definite thump under his thumb on her neck. Thank God.

Count, he had forgotten— It must have been longer than— He took a breath, pinched her nose, then blew.

One. . . two. . . three. . . four. . . Blow.

Keep going! He had to keep his eyes open, she's counting on him. Just count and blow, count and blow. He was so tired, exhausted, every breath hurt to take, but he mustn't stop; not all these breaths were his own.

Get up! Wake up!

He had passed out again. He pressed his ear to her chest. Quiet, it was too quiet. He took a deep breath, pinched her nose— She coughed. He let go of her nose.

He moved his ear to near her mouth. One. . . two. . . three. . . four. . . five, he fought the urge to pinch and blow. Six. . . seven. . . eight. . . nine, he should, this was way too long, ten. . . eleven. She took a breath. She was breathing on her own.

Good, this was good. He had only given her the most casual of looks, focusing on the most life-threatening first, now, he looked her over again.

Her left eye was swollen shut, the puffy cheek extended to her chin. 'Fractured jaw,' he had heard someone say. A tear ran down his face, wiped before it had a chance to fall. She was so pretty, that beaten, lightly freckled face.

I'm so sorry, he said, but she didn't move, not even a blink.

She was a mess. Her left arm was badly cut with a battered wrist and stabbed through the palm; her right arm was fine, except for her knotted hand. One foot was broken, as was the other knee, but most serious of all was her horrific gut wound.

He ripped open her sleeve, and paused. He had pulled the big pieces of glass from the cuts down her arm, now he had to inspect them closer, making sure he had gotten them all. The slivers of glass were hard to see; he had been dreading this for some time, but it had to be done. He started digging his fingers into the red lines. The chunks of glass looked like bubbles, but they were easier to feel. Well, the first few were, until these fingers too became as nicked and cut as those of his other hand.

It took several minutes, but he was thorough with the two long cuts on her upper arm, a deep one on her forearm, and the one that passed through her palm. He had no needles or thread, not that he knew enough to sew on a person, he had nothing to work with.

He familiarized himself with wrists by exploring his firmly, noting bones, muscles, and how much pressure it would take before it hurt. He cradled her arm while he felt her wrist, then did the same with the delicate bones of her hand. Her wrist may have been fractured, but the bones seemed to be arranged just fine; it was her right hand that was broken. He couldn't help but feel responsible.

He unbuttoned her shirt, then ran his fingers across the fist-sized purple spots along her ribs. No obvious breaks, no jagged bumps under the skin, it was just what might be considered a normal amount of swelling for the kind of beating she had received. The lacerations on her stomach had stopped bleeding, but he changed the bandage, just in case.

Something fell. It was little, about the size of a shelled walnut. He picked it up and wiped it off. Pink with a tiny string, he shuddered when he figured it out. He centered it on the soiled cloth, folded with the same care he would wrap a present.

He was losing the sun.

Exhausted, he still had much left to do. The fire that had been smoking the remains of a deer had nearly smoldered out. That much meat would take another day to dry at least. If he didn't tend to it now, it would spoil; easily weeks' worth of food, that should be his next priority.

Gather wood.

Dry wood first, build back that hot bed of coals, then collect the greens, willow branches, if he could find 'em. He had a lot to do, and little light left to do it.

He dumped the armfuls at the base of a tree, not far from the fire. He didn't want to look up. He had done so well all day, walking around only looking at the ground, but he knew he had to answer the stare.

I'm so sorry, Dawn. He looked the little girl in the face.

Her eyes never blinked, never moved, but seemed to always follow him.

He stared back, hoping for a sign of life, just a hint of movement. A sign of forgiveness. He reached up, high on the tree, his hands carefully around her tiny little waist. I'm sorry, he said, pulling her down.

It was one of the cruelest acts he had ever seen, worse because she had been such a sweet, innocent child. None of this had made any sense to him as he gently laid the girl down, her arms neatly concealed the fatal wound. He placed the wrapped organ in her tiny hand, then closed her eyes.

She wasn't his daughter, nor the woman's for that matter, but they had taken to her, had loved this little girl as if she was. He kissed her cold cheek. I'll have to bury you tomorrow, little one, he wiped his face. She needs me more right now, if she's going to make it through the night. He wrapped her tight in the biggest scrap of blanket, safe from bug bites.

He returned to the fire, scooped a large rock from near the coals, then dropped it into the bowl of leftover soup. He was about starved, made worse when the soup started that mouthwatering smell.

There were four— no, make that three horses around, somewhere. One had valiantly tried to defend them; when it was brutally killed, the other three fled. He could hear the hoof-steps in the distance and needed to gather them before it got too dark. The air was full of death, and that was sure to attract wolves or wild dogs. Three horses were plenty discouragement for even a hungry pack, but he had to gather them first.

There, he dumped his last armful of wood for tonight, then closed his eyes and listened.

Concentrating, focusing on the sounds, I hear you, over by the berry bush, he said, taking his time walking over.

There was an art to approaching a horse. Never sneak up on them, that could be fatally dangerous, and never from behind. These had just recently been spooked. It saw him now and was about to take a step back, perhaps to run.

It's, ok. I'm not going to hurt you. I promise. He tried to be calm.

It stomped a warning tap.

He stopped, well out of reach. Ok, that's fine. We, uh, we'll just stand for a little while. Let you get used to me again. He tried to straighten his posture and relax at the same time, which wasn't easy to do. I uh, look, I need your help tonight. I, uh, if we're going to survive this night, we need to be together.

He stepped closer. If he lunged, he might grab its halter, but he was just as likely to get dragged through the woods; it wasn't comfortable with him yet.

I know what you're thinking, you can outrun any dogs, it's us two-leggers who can't. That's true. I could probably climb a tree or wave around a burning stick and be ok tonight, but this isn't about just us. I need your help. She needs your help.

It snorted at him, but it didn't back away.

Close enough to take the reins, he petted it on the neck instead.

It jerked its head away, but came back to get petted some more. He wiped the back of his hand along its mane, leaving a faint smudge of someone else's blood. It pushed its big head into the center of his chest and almost knocked him to the ground.

Ok Ok, that's a good boy. He rubbed a smudge on the other side. Can you find the other two and bring'em back here, please?

It butted him again, then walked away. It seemed like a yes.

He needed a little more wood, but this wasn't for the fire, he needed to make a stretcher, splints, braces and such. These had to be specific shapes, sizes, and lengths. They wouldn't be as easy to find.

When he returned, the one with the smudges was milling, quite protectively, around his wounded friend, the other two nearby. Excellent.

A stretcher wasn't that hard to make; with two long branches and a horse blanket, he pretty much had it. He set it down, lengthwise beside her, rolled her as briefly as possible onto her side, slid it under her, then leaned her back. Easy enough, she never made a sound.

Too quiet. He checked. . . No, faint and far apart, but the signs were still there. He lifted from the head end, then slowly dragged her closer to the fire, the tree, and their little girl, Dawn.

He started with her many cuts. He cleaned them, then dabbed them dry, one at a time. With the cut pinched to a fine line, he smeared on a dab of sap. It was mostly willow on the cut itself, then liberally covered with the more abundant sap from pine.

The pine was extremely sticky and hard to clean off his fingers, but after only a few hours exposed to the air, it should slowly turn into a waterproof, protective shell. It worked, that was really all he needed to know. He would get plenty of practice with it tonight, now that he was down to firelight under an overcast sky.

By the time the fire needed stoking, the smell of soup had him starved. When he could put it off no longer, he guzzled all but the bit at the edge that a spoon couldn't reach. He looked at her, motionless on the stretcher, while he drank the last from the bowl. Sorry, that was quite rude of me, he said, but, you wouldn't have eaten any, anyway. I, uh, it was still rude, not to ask. He looked at her motionless hands. Sorry.

He stirred the fire, then mixed more ingredients for a morning meal. With the help of a properly selected stone, he could slow cook it in their big bowl. By the eight or ten hours until morning, it should soften enough for even a fractured jaw to chew.

He looked her over, now that the fire was putting out more light, then tested the stickiness of the sap bandaids. Still too tacky, he covered them with sized, clean leaves before wrapping and bracing her arm. He gave special care to the padding around her wrist, he was sure it had been fractured, and added extra padding around her punctured hand.

Her other arm wasn't cut, but it needed bracing all the same. He dreaded this part. He held her hand and checking it, one last time, against his own. Yeah, three of the bones were broken. He had to tug on each knuckle, then align the ends inside her hand, made worse by his inexperience. One had the tendency to undo the other; eventually, after a few wasted minutes, he caught on and set all three, simultaneously.

Packed, bandaged, braced and immobilized, she was slowly disappearing behind all those layers.

He woke to growling and the stomping neighs of horses.

The fire was still going, but far from a blaze. The horses had encircled them and the fire, protection, just as he had hoped they would. The wolves had come, just as feared, but were content for now to fight over the corpse of the already dead horse a good distance beyond the fire's light. But that didn't prevent the horrible chewing, bone-splintering sounds from surrounding them.

He gripped the thickest stick like a club. It was all he had if any got past the horses. He dragged Dawn as close to the fire as he dared; he wasn't sure how badly he was willing to defend her tiny, dead body, but he was positive he couldn't handle those sounds, coming from her.

It shouldn't come to that, he knew it wouldn't, the wolves would fight over the easy meal first. They were safe tonight, he didn't need the club, but he felt better with it, just in case. Besides, the gruesome sounds alone were sure to keep him up.

By morning, all but the most gorged wolves had disappeared back into the woods. Those that remained were easily chased off by simply waving a club and charging; stuffed and lazy was always easier to disperse than hungry and desperate.

There was hardly anything left, just tufts of hacked up hair, shards of bones, and dragging marks in all directions. On his way back to the fire, he stopped at the other corpse. That of a man, their guardian once, the biggest, strongest man he had ever known. He had glimpsed battles that lasted only a few seconds, where this man had vanquished dozens with his bare hands, now just a lump on the dirt, untouched by even the hungriest canine.

He didn't blame 'em, he didn't approach any closer than ten feet. It still chilled him. He wanted to walk away but was afraid to turn his back, even on this lump. He's dead. He's not ever getting up, he said. He's very dead, nothing to fear. But he didn't move. Nothing, to fear.

He was terrified, but managed to walk around.

He had a lot to do, starting with digging a deep, short hole.

It took half the morning, but he got it dug. The little girl looked so small and alone, laid at its bottom. He should say, something, but couldn't find the words. . . I'm sorry, Honey, was all that came out.

He filled in the hole, topped it with enough brick rubble to discourage any digging, then returned to the fire.

The soup was soft and mushy, and the venison had broken into fine little strings, nearly the perfect temperature for eating.

He couldn't sit her up, so he dragged her to the tallest pile of rubble, a piece of a wall it must have been— it didn't matter. The stretcher held her at a comfortable 45-degree angle while he fed her, in complete silence, one spoonful at a time.

He could tell, even almost liquefied, it still hurt her jaw. He was extra careful with the spoon and always certain to wait for eye contact first. Difficult to do, with her left eye still swollen shut.

We, uh, we have to leave before tonight. The jerky is more or less dry now, it should hold up, just fine. . . He scooped about a half spoon, making sure he got a good mix of broccoli, spinach, carrot, and strings of meat, We'll leave in the evening, at the latest. It was clear she couldn't eat anymore. I— She's buried on the sunny side, with that morning view she always loved, he said, but her eyes were already closed.

He dragged her to the fire, propped on a much smaller pile of rubble. It wasn't suitable for feeding, but soup would be a cruel meal to try to digest, flat on the ground. A few feet of incline would do just fine.

He broke some test pieces of jerky. Stiff and crumbly, it was acceptably dry right now, but longer was safer and they had a few hours. The few meals worth of soup left, he should save for her; chewing hard, dry food was easiest for him to do.

He gathered up his tools, crude as they were. His hatchet was nothing more than a piece off one of the rubbled cinderblocks, chipped and shaped into an edge then strapped to a wooden club. Only two water bags were still full. He still had to figure what to do with saddlebags, saddles, wooden bowls, three waterproofed blankets, and now down to two untreated saddle blankets.

They were only two now, so he should leave two of the saddles and all its gear behind. That simplified things a bit.

Consolidation, that was the key. Everything he packed today would have to be unpacked tomorrow.

Packed, all that was left was to fasten the stretcher to the saddle. Simple enough. He had allowed for it and had left the ends by her head almost five feet longer, all he had to do was lash it to the saddle-horn and they were off. . .

He had no idea where to go.

They had to go. The wolves would be back, and hungrier this time.

He looked at her, one eye swollen, the other closed. He knelt beside her, touching the fingers extending beyond the bandages. I need a direction, he said, but she didn't move.

It worked enough, he had a hunch.

They started walking, hours before dusk. He had lengthened the reins so he could walk behind the horse, with her. It disturbed the horses to walk this slow, but the ends of the stretcher that dragged the ground tended to bump and jar on every rock and fallen branch, bouncing especially hard on exposed tree roots.

There was nothing he could do about it now. As bad as being dragged was, it was better than being draped, dangled, or propped up on the horse. Not that he could handle putting her up there, much less getting her down; he had back problems of his own.

The night sky favored them. Without the clouds, the pale blue of the night sky was plenty light to travel by, even on these wooded animal paths.

When they stopped that morning, she was somewhat awake. He could tell there was something wrong.

What is it? he said.

She just stared for a second, then started to—

No, don't say anything. I, I know. Your jaw hurts if you make a sound, vibrations and fractures and all. Besides, I can guess, uh, can you hold on for just another few minutes?

She nodded with a prolonged blink.

He thought about the problem. She couldn't sit, the gut wound would open if she even tried. All that bouncing and the fluid-heavy soup from the night before had combined to demonstrate the error in his stretcher design. He needed to come up with something, and soon.

He unfastened the strap under her arms that had kept her from sliding down, something he encouraged now while he worked her splinted knee and broken foot along the ground, as painlessly as he could. The stretcher turned to poles about a foot and a half off the ground; he slid her until her waist was barely off before he loosened her pants, careful not to let his eyes drift down.

Nothing was happening.

He thought about what little he knew about anatomy.

Oh, he sat her up, holding her as firmly and gently as he could until that familiar sound.

One broken, the other stabbed, both her hands were equally bound. He would have to do the rest as well. He managed, somehow, while never taking his eyes off hers.

She never said a word.

Uh, you hungry? he said, Thirsty maybe?

She just faced him for a while, until her eye eventually closed.

Tired? Feel like going some more?

That was a definite no, even though it was an almost unnoticed shake.

Ok. We'll— I'll just look around a bit, I guess, find the best spot and all. He walked ahead of the horses, pointing randomly, mumbling to himself, I wonder if it would be better over there? then taking a step before declaring the answer No. He continued in that method until, by process of elimination with single steps and points alone, he wandered upon the perfect spot.

It was a modest clearing, only so because strong winds or a recent storm had toppled a handful of mature trees and opened a little pocket that was perfect for his small group. When the trees fell, their roots even dug a suitable fire pit, he need only take care not to let the fire get too big.

An abundance of dried leaves made for a comfortable bed when covered with a few blankets. He worked her off the stretcher while the thirsty horses emptied the pooled water in these root-free pits, making it much easier to start a fire, when he had time.

He checked over her wounds again. No improvements, but nothing had gotten worse. Most important of all, last night's travel hadn't misaligned any bones. He wanted to keep going, he was sure that was the best thing to do, but she was in no shape to continue. Ideally, he should never have moved her; clearly, that was not an option. He had to find the balance between the harm moving her did, and the woefully inadequate care he could give.

She was strong, but she could only handle so much.

He chewed on his stick of jerky as he continued to stare at her, warming in the sun.

He lay down beside her, his head positioned to keep the sun from her eyes. As children, they shared the same room. Her bunk was just above his. It seemed like they had been friends all of his life. It seemed he had loved her even longer.

So much was on him now. His choices. It was terrifying. Overwhelming. She needed him, and all his failures had led them to now. He had to do better. This was his last chance. They were quickly approaching fall, and she would never survive a winter like this. He doubted she could take the first hard cold. He might lose her yet, just moving her down the side of this mountain was doing her harm.

He swallowed hard.

He wanted to kiss her, that corner of her lips too swollen to seal, that dab of drool caught there. He kissed her on the forehead instead, I love you, he whispered, before leaving to tend the horses.

He fed each a head of cabbage. He had filled two saddlebags with them, some carrots, apples, and other horse friendly foods he gathered from the overrun garden atop the mountain. He figured it was just a few days worth, maybe more; it was hard to gauge how much a horse could eat.

Soup had to be kept heated or it risked spoiling, that complicated things. They had a converted saddlebag to keep embers glowing for days; with a little reorganization, he managed to make enough room to slide in one of the water-bags filled with soup. It worked fine, it kept the soup slow-cooking and scalding hot. The problem was, now the embers wouldn't last more than a day. That meant building a fire nightly. That took time. Time was something she might not have.

He checked hooves. He wasn't sure just what he was looking for, but he knew it was something important to do. They all looked pretty much the same, so he figured they must be all right.

You think you could stand guard for me? He rubbed the horse under its chin, then a few strokes beside the smudge. It seemed to be deemed a reasonable request. It stood over her while he wandered off to take care of personal business of his own.

He chewed another stick of jerky while staring at the stretcher. He had to make it better. Think. . .

Two main problems.

Too jarring, and not responsive to her needs.

He propped it against a tree, then climbed on. They were roughly the same size, so, what should be right for him, would be right for her. He measured it twice, hopping down just to make sure. I don't have enough blankets to take the chance of ruining one. He closed his eyes, hoping that he was sure.

He cut out a square where knees would be.

He sat in the hole, fine-tuning it. It would work. Well, it was an improvement.

He checked his pockets and was down to his last three sticks of willow. He would have to search for more, today. He started chewing one immediately, knowing it would take another hour before his headache would start to ease. He chewed with impatience.

He started looking.

Willows. These didn't look like the weeping willows he had grown up knowing. The leaves were much shorter, the trunk and branches more resembled shrubs than a tree, but it was still in the willow family. He found it with that same aloud, single step in random directions method. It was working, he had to just trust, stick with what works.

He picked a light salad of the youngest leaves; he wasn't hungry, but it helped speed headache relief. Leaves were tastier than strips of bark, but leaves didn't keep in a pocket for more than a couple hours.

Willow. . . Hmmm. It gave him an idea.

He chopped off two of the choicest branches, then tested them for flexibility. It might work. He replenished his supply of inner bark sticks, peeled from the trunk where they were most potent.

Back at the camp, he worked on lashing the branches to the stretcher. He wouldn't know if it worked until she rode it, but when he tested it with his weight, the branches bowed, adding a curvy-like-spring between the rigid ends and the ground. It should help.

Time for another stick.

He stretched out beside her, flat on his back.

She had received the worst of the violence, but he hadn't escaped unscathed. When he closed his eyes, he could see it again, precious little Dawn, impaled before his eyes, so soon after he had been hurled through the air, back first into the same tree. He lay under her tiny, twitching, moccasined feet, well within reach, if only he could have stood. His legs were useless, he just helplessly stared up into that sweet little face, while this woman he lay beside was being tortured, just a few steps away.

Helpless to stop either one. He wasn't so helpless now. His back still hurt, but he could stand, he could walk, and he was making the most of it.

He looked at her as he shaded her eyes with his hand.

You're going to make it.

Her eye never opened.

My silent, little hero. He moved his fingers through her hair, then rested his palm on the back of her neck. You'll be ready to eat in a little bit, another few hours. He slid closer.

He missed sleeping with her. They had hardly done much more than kiss in the years he had known her, but he still missed just being. . . close. There was just something so profound about that subtle little touch, the weight of her head on his shoulder, her hair tickling his neck. So fragile, untouchable now.

He let go, close was close enough.

His back felt so much better, he must have fallen asleep. He sat up, then looked around. No, everything was fine. She should be waking— her hand, she had been holding hands, well, as best as a bandaged hand could.

He stared at it, her fingers, the center two looked wrong. He lightly rubbed all four, the center two stayed where moved. He unwrapped her hand. It was the stabbed one, the cut was between the unmoved two. There was nothing he could do; if there was tendon damage, he didn't know enough to help. Otherwise, it looked fine. He wrapped it again.

He poured half a bowl, then stirred it with the spoon, breaking up all the big pieces, smushing her favorite carrots into pea-sized chunks. He tested it with the tip of his finger; another ten minutes to cool and it would be just right.

He still had to sit her up, and needed to find a more convenient way. The saddles were made of a thick leather, two stacked just so would prop her nicely. As soon as she showed signs, he put his design into action. It worked just fine. Another silent meal, she managed to eat it all this time; now that he was more practiced with the spoon and avoided the painful, unintentional taps of any tooth.

You ok to sit like that for an hour or two?

She had the faintest of smile.

I figure, we can get a few hours of travel before tonight. You think you'll be up for it?

She would.

We, uh, I think maybe a week or two and we'll start running into people. I'm not so sure how good a thing that might be, but, well, we need to find a place for winter. He looked at her half swollen face, I know, we haven't had much good luck with strangers.

He was careful when he wiped the corners of her mouth.

You're doing fine. I had a good dream last night, he said, but she closed her eyes like it could prevent him from finishing the sentence, complete with two little hummingbirds.

She turned away.

I think it's a good sign.

She didn't turn back.

Well, it was a good sign for me, my first introduction to you. He watched her. She wasn't going to look back. I, I didn't mean for any of this. I never should have—

When she turned his way, he stared at the ground.

They didn't travel but for a few hours that day, all she could take. The willow springs helped, it just wasn't enough with the extent of her wounds.

It was hard to judge distance on a forested mountainside, but clearly, they had a long way to go. He figured if they could get to the valley, they could follow it. From the top it looked like a road, at the very least it was free from trees, probably still weeks away.

He unfastened her stretcher from the horse and dragged it to a suitable branch. He propped her up, adjusting for the ideal feeding angle before he left for the soup saddlebag.

Catch her Catch her Catch her! he said, turning just in time; the willow extensions were literally hopping her down. He held the stretcher firmly, his hands still shaking. He had nearly been too late. Catch her, he kept repeating, still shaken.

He propped her back, lashing the poles this time before going for the soup.

Catch her, he mumbled to himself with every spoonful.

Her appetite had grown since the day before, he even had to partially refill the bowl. When she had enough he sampled from the spoon. It was plenty good, the vegetables were soft enough to fall apart with a gentle brush of the tongue. Only the buds of broccoli remained firm. He had a couple more before he poured the rest back.

If it's ok with you, I'll just leave you tied there for now.

She seemed ok with it.

He continued readying the campsite, fire, bed, tending hooves and everything else. It was tiring and time consuming, but he need only look to her for all his motivation to endure.

It wasn't going to rain, per-se, but it was sure to drizzle most of the night. That meant a tent of some sort, all they had were three waterproofed horse-blankets. One easily made the floor while a bowed-over sapling made a decent arch for the other two to make the roof. It was a lot of prep and a lot of work.

He harvested some spectacular embers from the fire, perfect for the bag. They should easily keep until noon the next day, so he hurried the fire out. It was already getting dark with clouds and could start at any time. The tent was filled with all the important gear, now that the embers were taken care of; all that was left was moving her.

Dragging her over was easy, the heartbreaking part was when he discovered the flaw. It was simple for him to crawl in the small opening, it was quite something else to drag someone across the ground through the same hole. He disassembled the roof, cursing himself aloud.

Only after she had been situated, could he remake it, crawling in last.

The horses milled around outside and made for a comforting sound while he waited for the rain. It was dark outside, darker still within, but he could easily make out the shape of her. He carefully inched beside her until his hip touched hers; his elbows straddled her shoulders as he stared down at her face.

He could make out the white of one eye as she looked back at him. He ran his fingers through her hair. I'm so sorry, he said.

Her head inched closer for a kiss. He moved to lie beside her as she turned enough so he could see that one, blinking eye.

We'll have a long day tomorrow. I think— I mean, I've heard that the trail will be much eas— He kissed her again, I've missed talking to you. I miss the sound of your voice. He caught a glimpse of her teeth, No, don't say. I know it'll hurt to talk. It's silly for you to, just so I can hear your voice. I— I just miss talking to you, that's all.

He used her eye for a guide to find her unswollen cheek.

No, that's not all I miss. He inched a little closer. He could feel her faint little smile form under his palm. He kissed her again, then inched back away, waiting for the rain.

Morning came without a word, except those he said to himself. He was starting to get worried about that a bit. It was coming more naturally. Too naturally. He talked aloud about the coming events of the day, what fork in the road to take, when and where to stop. By the end of the week, he had talked that entire day, nonstop, from morning to night. He worried for his sanity.

Perhaps it was a side effect from chewing so many willow sticks, approaching two-dozen a day. It left him with a slight lightheadedness, maybe chatty was a side effect too?

They were at another fork in the path, and he had to talk this out aloud.

If I go this way, he took a step down the left, it leads to a few fallen trees, then slows even more by some thickets, he stepped back, but, if I go this way, he stepped to the right, it wanders zigzagy, but seems to be faster. Definitely more open. We'll go that way.

He led the horses to the right.

It still seemed to be working, the path was zigzagged but it was also open, and they did seem to be moving down it rather quickly.

Once on a path the horse walked it without his guidance while he watched his friend instead of the road. It had led to a few rude slaps from low branches, but nothing that left any marks, they weren't traveling that fast.

It had taken over a week to run completely out of horse food, and nearly out of stock for soup, but they had plenty of hard jerky left. He had taken to turning the horses loose after finding a campsite. Smudges wouldn't wander far and always kept the other two in line. They were hungry though, that much was clear. He would start having problems with them if they didn't reach some grasslands soon. Leaves and bark only went so far, horses weren't really woodland creatures.

He made a tent this night, not for rain but to shield them from the cold. Even so, he wrapped her well in their one good blanket while he managed the night without.

In the morning he fed her the last bowl of soup. He hadn't the heart to tell her there wasn't any more. He had no idea what to do for lunch. He looked around, the horses hadn't returned.

He held her hand, Don't worry, the horses will be back within the hour, he said.

Sure enough, they were.

She was much stronger today. They traveled from morning until well into the afternoon before she had to stop. Unfortunately, the horses were looking more haggard, hungry, and much less willing to comply by that time.

He crumbled some strips of jerky into the bowl, then ground them finer with a well washed stone. He mixed it with hot water and waited for it to cool. When he sampled it, it tasted like watered down smoked steak. It wasn't good.

But it was the best he had.

He fashioned another tent out of a sapling again, but this time had built it around her, already situated, supported by saddles. He crawled in, the coming rain would wash out what was left of the fire.

I could try to disguise it with mushrooms or some leaves but, he made her sample a small spoonful, I would most likely pick the kind that'll make you sick, so, I didn't even try.

She nodded, mouthing 'it's ok'.

I ran out of soup fixins some time ago. Sorry. He slowly fed her until she ate it all. He set the bowl outside for the rain to clean, then turned his attentions to her.

She held out one arm.

. . . No, he said.

She held it still.

. . . Please don't.

She didn't put it down.

He cradled it with one arm, unwrapping it with the other. When it was bare, she held out the other. When both were unbound, she slumped forward until he positioned himself between the saddles and her. As the rain started tapping the blanket over their heads, she leaned the back of hers into his shoulder, her cheek on his chest. He cradled her arms and hands as best he could. The slightest jolt or unconscious twitch on his part could cause her immense pain. But she hated being bound and confined almost as much as she craved being held. They were nearly the same thing in his mind, not hers.

Marry me, he said.

Never enough, to share my life.

It had hardly been a whisper, but its memory drowned the heaviest downpour. He had gone without her voice for so long, this he hoped to remember forever.

It hadn't been the first time he had proposed. They had been children then. She turned him down then too. He had proposed to her quite a bit in the last few years. She never gave a solid no, she always left him with something. The rain was already too loud to hear, but he could feel the warm, occasional breaths, just under her nose. He did his best to spread the blanket, it would start getting cool soon.

'To share my life,' was a wonderful thought to cling to, eyes closed, awaiting a colorful dream to take form.

This tiny bird, just a blur when it darted around, would stop and hover for a second, then blur away again. . . He chased it through the woods, in a round about way, careful not to scare it by getting too close. It seemed to be leading him somewhere, hovering just long enough for him to catch up before darting off again. He tried to remember every landmarked turn.

He woke the second he lost the dream.

It was late morning and there was a horse's nose in the tent. Smudges was sniffing his friend, she wasn't looking so good. She wasn't waking up. He slid out from under her, then pulled down the tent.

It wasn't morning, they had slept past noon. He inspected then rebound her arms, careful as he could.

Hey fella, he rubbed the horse on the patch between its eyes, if you can bring those other two here, we can get going. He scratched it under the chin, I got a hunch, today we may find something for you.

A few ribs had started to show as it walked away.

He should have known better and predicted she would relapse.

He kept his eye out all day for those landmarked clues.

It took a while, the first didn't show for nearly an hour. He followed as best he could remember them, divining what he couldn't with the tried and true wandering chatting method.

By late evening, and way off any path, they found a patch of prime grass, weeds, and other horse friendly food. He hurried to collect dandelion leaves before the horses could. Added to a jerky soup, they were sure to make it more palatable, a little like one of her favorites, spinach.

He had to nudge her to wake her.

She opened both eyes this time. It was the first time he had glimpsed what had been swollen shut. Darkened blue, nearly black, at best it had a few freckles of white. The horse moving on that side went unnoticed. She may well be blind. He made a mental note to always approach on her good side.

He fed her, extra careful this time.

You ready? he asked, toothbrush in hand. Well, it wasn't so